


On Origins

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [13]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prelude piece - of when Malcolm Tucker first met Jamie Macdonald in this AU. Contains fighting, and fucking, and some really rude swearing :p</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Origins

**Author's Note:**

> Another co-production from themasterplanner and the-crazy-geek. Find us both on Tumblr!

***

Jamie had met Malcolm in his prime — strikingly handsome, with a mop of dark curls and porcelain skin, muscles like piano wires and wings like scythes, a paragon of the Winged. The older man had been astonished to learn that he wasn’t alone and wasn’t a freak or a mutant, eager to be introduced to others like him, eager to learn everything he could about the culture and claim his birthright. 

Jamie learned everything he knew about politics from Malcolm, but everything Malcolm knew about the Winged, he got from him.

***

"Ye’re Winged, aren’t ye?" The wee curly-haired shite had a grin so wide, it was like to split his face — the smile of someone who knew something he should’nae, and wasn’t telling. 

"What? No. Everyone knows they’ve gone extinct."

"Stop taking the piss." The younger man rubbed the side of his face. His black eye was already fading,  less black than it had been a few minutes ago. That punch should have broken his cheekbone or dislocated his jaw. Malcolm had done it before. "No human could dodge that hit. No human could hit me that fucking hard, either."

Malcolm Tucker had always known he was a freak, a mutant; he was born with wings, and his Mam had always told him to never, under any circumstances, use them in public or show them to anyone. They were the family secret, perhaps a punishment from Isobel Tucker’s stern and angry God for some sin or another, inflicted through her only son. With the wings came astonishing reflexes and monstrous strength which always served him well in a pub fight — until he’d gone up against the Lanark cunt in front of him.  Malcolm frowned, wondering what to tell his erstwhile brawling opponent. 

"Come on, ye cunt. I’ll show ye mine." The man stripped his shirt off, fumbling with the buttons, and flexed his shoulders. There was a great blast of air and down feathers, and Malcolm instinctively closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, he blinked a few times, hardly believing the sight. 

This man had wings too.

Except these were jet black, broad and glossy. The young man strutted about, blatantly showing them off, and Malcolm wasn’t about to stand for it, Mam’s orders or no. Within moments, his own shirt was off and his grey pointed wings were out. He curled them around his body and, with a pulse of strength, spread them outward so that they flared like the hood of a cobra.

"Eh, I’ve seen nicer," the black feathered one finally said. "Can ye fly?"

"They’d be fucking useless if I couldn’t, right?"

"Then follow me, I’ll buy ye some beer that doesn’t taste like fucking warm piss an’ teach ye the rules around here. What’s yer name?"

Malcolm remained stiff and wary, his wings spread. Could he be trusted? 

The young man grinned, blue eyes wide, and extended his hand. “Jamie MacDonald, what’s yer fucking name?”

Malcolm relaxed his wings and shook the proffered hand. “Malcolm Tucker.”

***

Next thing Malcolm knew, he was on a rooftop, drinking ale while this Jamie brought him quails and a high-speed barrage of questions:  What Flock are ye from? Who are ye Bonded to? I know all the Winged in Glasgow and I’m probably related to half of ‘em, why haven’t I seen you before? My brother’s an Alpha an’ he’s never mentioned any skinny overgrown fucking pigeons starting crash-ups —

"What the fuck are ye talking about?" Malcolm looked up from the particularly plump bird he’d picked from the pile. "You’re not making any fucking sense!"

"Come on man, ye don’t have something tae hide, do you?"

Within a second, Malcolm was up, wings raised high and a bottle in his hand. “What is all this Flock and Bonding shite, and how are there more of ye, anyway?! It would’ve been in the papers!”

Jamie looked at Malcolm for a long moment, and then he started to laugh. 

"Ach, no wonder ye dinnae know anything!" Jamie was laughing fit to burst.  "You’re a fucking cuckoo!"

Malcolm had no fucking idea why someone would call him a cuckoo — his wings really did look more like a pigeon’s, he thought — but he had the feeling that he was being insulted. “And what the fuck does that mean?”

"A cuckoo, that’s what we call it when a Wingless family somehow gets a wean with feathers. It’s very rare, nobody really knows how it happens."

"Does it matter?" Malcolm asked. 

Jamie hesitated for a moment, trying not to notice the wild hopeful look in the other man’s eyes. The word cuckoo had all sorts of connotations, none of them good — after all, the cuckoo was known for laying her eggs into another bird’s nest, forcing it to feed her own chick. 

"Does it matter that my whole family’s wingless?"

"Eh, only to the rich old Great Flock dodos in their fancy castles." Jamie shrugged and waved a hand. "Out here, we only care about whether you can fly and fight." 

Malcolm smiled — not a sweet or a friendly smile either, it was the smile of a predator. “Good thing I can do both, then.”

Jamie tried to suppress a shiver.  This man will be the Alpha someday. That or get us all killed.

"Not before I teach ye what’s proper." Jamie opened another bottle of beer. "I guess I’ll just have tae take ye under my wing an’ teach ye all the things yer Wingless family could’nae, lucky me. Now sit tae fuck back down,  because we’re going to be here for awhile."

Malcolm rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told. He collected potentially valuable information like a magpie hoarded trinkets; that’s what made him the  Herald’s best political reporter. He’d wring MacDonald out like a fucking wet rag until he gave up everything he knew about winged humans.

"First off, the fucking Rules of Secrecy…"

****

Malcolm had agreed to meet Jamie again the next night, when they got off work at the paper. Jamie had told him a little bit about himself and his family — overworked Da, overwhelmed Mam, brood of raven-winged siblings, all steeped in a stew of Scottish Winged tradition, soccer hooliganism, and fervent Catholicism. 

"You were gonna be a priest?!" Malcolm’s voice was raised in disbelief, staring at the black-winged rent boy of Satan himself, currently sitting next to him on a rooftop lobbing beer cans at pigeons.    
  
"Yup. Trained fer years. Mam made me at first, tryin’ tae keep me out of pub fights and such, but it was’nae bad really." Jamie’s mad eyes narrowed and he pointed at Malcolm. "Make one fucking kiddy fiddler crack and I’ll fucking pluck ye bald."   
  
It was true; Jamie had spent a few happy years training in the Seminary. He could expound upon St. Augustine, Aquinas, and the Epistles for days; he’d been fantastic at going to hospitals and comforting the poor wee kids who were sick and all that stuff. Malcolm’s look of disbelief only deepened as Jamie told him this.   
  
"So, why leave?" Malcolm waved off the offer of the last can of Stella and flicked Jamie’s spent cigarette butts off the roof ledge.   
  
"All that fucking ‘sex is a sin’ shite. Doesn’t fit in with our lifestyle."    
  
"…what do ye mean ‘lifestyle?’ Ye queer or something?"   
  
The auld fuck didn’t know  shite !

"Fuck no, no, Winged and sex are —" Jamie put his head in his hands and sighed. Fucking hell, this Gorbals pigeon really  was a cuckoo. If he was ever going tae be a true Winged, he was going tae have to get rid of those Wingless hangups.

"What? Don’t ye fucking tell me that we have tae fuck wee birds or something, because I never got a fucking hard-on watching Rod Hull and Emu."

Jamie just told Malcolm to fuck off and chucked a can at him, which Malcolm easily caught.   
  
"See, there aren’t a lot of us left, fucking Uprising and all, and the winged lasses only go intae heat once a year, so everyone has tae fuck a lot —"   
  
Malcolm blinked. Had he heard this right? Going into heat, like a fucking dog?

"— and ye have dominance battles yeah, so the winner gets tae shag the loser, and I know the lassies get up tae some serious lezzing amongst themselves although the last time I asked one of my sisters about it I nearly got a fucking chair leg rammed up my arse—"

Malcolm just sat with his mouth open. “You’re fucking trying it on, aren’t ye?”

"Ye never had sex then?" Jamie rustled his wings, flicking some night time mist off the feathers. "Winged have a way fuckin’ higher sex drive than humans an’ with none of the fucking crap about how ye’re only allowed tae fuck the other gender."

Malcolm tried not to flush. “I’ve had  plenty of sex, ye nosy cunt!”   
  
"With yer fucking right hand, maybe!" Jamie retorted. "Your wings expand when ye come, someone would have seen!"   
  
"I’m just nae a fucking poof, unlike  some people.” Malcolm huffed, trying his best to ignore the fact that Jamie smelled  really good right about now, and for some reason he hadn’t noticed before.

"Poof?" Jamie laughed and slapped Malcolm’s wing. "Ye’ve never had a Dominance fight either, have ye? Never had tae earn and keep your status — ye’re a fucking  jessie !”   
  
Malcolm leapt to his feet. No Glasgow lad would take being called a jessie with impunity.

Malcolm’s wings spread as if in reflex, and his hand automatically went to one of the discarded beer bottles.   
  
"Say that again!" Malcolm nearly pushed Jamie off the roof. "Fucking say that again, I dare you!"   
  
Jamie would have regretted saying that as soon as he saw the look in Malcolm’s eyes — but Ma MacDonald didnae raise any weak lads. He was a Winged of an old Scottish clan — and Tucker here was just a human with wings.   
  
"It’s true!" Jamie snarled. "You’ve never been in a  real aerial punch-up! I’m nae some fucking Wingless ned who you can just—”   
  
He was interrupted by a punch to the jaw.

Staggering back, Jamie only laughed. “Come on then, I’ll show ye what a proper Winged fights like. If ye can keep up, that is!” He leapt off the roof, and with one powerful beat of his black wings, he was airborne. He’d knacker that grey-winged shite out with a stonking great fight, and then…well, he’d see how much of a Winged Malcolm was. If an aerial fight didn’t turn the auld git on, then he was no fucking true Winged.

Malcolm was on his tail within seconds, pointed wings beating hard. He was a silver blur in the air, moving almost too fast to be seen by Wingless eyes. When his fist connected, it felt like a sledgehammer.   
  
Jamie staggered back, bleeding from a cut lip and veering wildly to regain his position. So the auld fucker could actually hit. But that wasn’t going to be enough to win a  real Dominance fight.   
  
He rolled and shot straight forward, intending to give Malcolm a proper Glesca kiss … and realized he’d missed when he felt Malcolm’s hard boot to the back of his head. He righted himself again and frantically flapped upward. Mid-air fighting was dangerous as fuck, and being seen was always a risk.

This wasn’t like any crash-up Malcolm had been in before; the adrenaline went straight to his head in a heady, potent rush. He felt powerful, invulnerable, like nothing could touch him. And when he smelled Jamie’s blood in the air, the sensation licked at his veins like wildfire, heading straight to his loins.   
  
This fight, Malcolm dimly realized,  was turning him on…

Jamie was a proper bruiser, unmatched in the skill of getting his full speed behind a dirty punch and knocking some upstart young twat intae the nearest river with one mid-air blow, and he had reckoned on this fight going much the same. Malcolm, after all, hadn’t ever had a mid-air fight nor even any flying training from another Winged — and Jamie had been having punch-ups on the wing with his siblings for most of his life. Should have been an easy conclusion.   
  
Nobody appeared to have told Malcolm that. The bastard was  fast and could turn corners sharper and more accurately than Jamie could. One second he’d be behind Jamie and the next he was straight above him and barrelling in for another punch. He could smell the excitement and  lust, yeah ye want me you grey cunt  coming off his opponent and frankly he just wanted to win this fight quick so he could have that lanky tall pretty boy fucker spread under him, cryin’ his name.   
  
Adjusting his trousers so his own erection wasn’t trapped, Jamie made damn sure Malcolm saw him do it —  yeah I’m fucking hard and probably bigger than ye so come down an’ suck me  — and flew higher. He was younger, he’d not tire before this Tucker git.

Malcolm gained altitude within a few seconds, expertly dodging Jamie’s fists. The wee git was getting impatient, frustrated. His face was red, his breathing hard in the thin Glasgow air, his dark hair matted with sweat, and by the looks of that fucking trouser tent, he was … well, as hard as Malcolm was.   
  
Malcolm had never thought that a crash-up could be sexual, and he sure as fuck wasnae a queer — but images of the short-arsed crow defeated and under him, moaning his name as he fucked him silly, refused to leave his mind. He shook his head and flew higher, nearly into the cloud cover.   
  
When Jamie paused for a second to adjust the pole in his pants, Malcolm folded back his wings — in imitation of the falcons he’d seen — and leaned into a sharp dive.

Screeching like a bloody hawk, he tore through the air and clawed his hands into Jamie’s shoulders. Pulling the younger man tight against him, Malcolm leaned in and bit the bare flesh on his shoulder — why, he didn’t know, it just felt right. Jamie shuddered slightly and very faintly moaned before he was tearing his way back out of Malcolm’s grip and back-winging to a safe distance.   
  
"See!" Jamie crowed, hardly seeming to notice the bleeding teeth marks on his shoulder. "Tell me that this is’nae givin’ ye a stiffy!"

Malcolm ignored that as he harried Jamie like a nest of wasps, punching him in the face until his knuckles bled. The wee poof was right — this was only making him more excited, sending him into a crazed frenzy of bloodlust.   
  
Jamie barely managed to tear the fucking pretty pigeon off him and fling him  away. Fuck, he’d created a monster.

No son of Mary Abigail MacDonald was going down that easily. Jamie spun backwards in a loop and bared his teeth. He no longer cared that Malcolm didn’t know the first thing about Winged traditions or life, he was going to make this man bleed fer biting him like he was some woman in Heat.   
  
An observer hovering nearby would have been hard pressed to distinguish the two fighters from each other now. The dark misty skies hid Malcolm’s grey wings and Jamie’s black ones equally, and they were flying fast and swiping at each other so often it was almost as if they were one four-winged being flailing around in the clouds. Malcolm had given up on punching Jamie now that his knuckles were matted with blood, and was now busy kicking him in the stomach, the bollocks, and anywhere else his long legs could reach.    
  
"I’m going tae  enjoy fucking ye, Tucker!” Jamie snarled, nearly feral from the pain of multiple bruises and bleeding from several bites.    
  
Malcolm howled. Fury, pride, desire, bloodlust and the biggest hardon he’d ever had all combined into one last final all-out attack at the fucking raven in front of him. At full speed and with teeth bared and hands clawed,  he dove at Jamie and slammed him a good fifty metres down onto the roof they’d been sat on earlier. Jamie lay there stunned from the fall for a second and then looked up at the man standing astride him.   
  
Panting, wings held high, Malcolm felt  amazing , and a little disbelieving. He’d won!

Malcolm stood bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard, beating his wings to cool himself off, staring at the younger man laying prone before him. He brushed a wet lock of hair away from his eyes and frowned in contemplation at the enormous erection pushing out of his trousers. He was nae a poof — so why did MacDonald smell like fucking sex on wings? The scent coming off him was irresistible, filling him with the urge to push him down and take him and make him scream, spend himself inside him …   
  
His thoughts were interrupted when Jamie snarled at him. “Fucking go on then! Get it over with!”

When Malcolm still made no move to claim his victory, Jamie grabbed his wrist. “Oh fer fucks sake…” he muttered as he guided Malcolm’s hand down to his trousers. “I want ye, yeah, I’m willing okay? It’s not against mai will. Throw those fucking human thoughts out of yer head, this is what Winged life is!”   
  
Malcolm coughed. “What, fighting and fucking anything that moves?”  But he didn’t resist at all or move away when Jamie propped himself up into a seated position and leaned in closer to Malcolm’s face.    
  
"Add in some hunting and, yeah, pretty much." Jamie had a fun image of taking Malcolm out to hunt and decided that yeah, he’d make that happen. He’d wow this pigeon with his amazing skills at ripping lunch outta the air, but first—   
  
"—oh fucking whatever." Jamie pulled Malcolm’s head down to his and captured his thin lips in a searing kiss.    
  
If Malcolm was shocked at that, he almost had a fucking heart attack when he finally  realised he was kissing Jamie back, and moving his hands over the young man’s wings in strokes he knew felt good from his long nights spent pleasuring himself, stroking his wings and wanking.

"I’ve never fucked a man before," Malcolm whispered. "Never wanted to, either."   
  
"Yeah, and I’ve generally won these fucking fights," Jamie growled. "Do yer worst."

"Are ye sure about this?" Malcolm unbuttoned Jamie’s fly and gently pulled his trousers down, his fingers slowly moving under the waistband of his pants, towards his arse. "I don’t want to take advantage —"   
  
"Fuck’s sake, Tucker, I’m not a blushing Wingless virgin on her wedding night! We just had a fucking Dominance battle, ye ken? It’s how ye send a message, how ye show the other males how strong ye are!" Jamie groaned and gritted his teeth. There was a large precome stain spreading over the front of his pants, and his cock felt so hard, it was like tae burst if this grey cunt didn’t get a fucking move on.

Jamie wasn’t about to stay up on this fucking rooftop all night dealing with a grown man flapping about like some teenage lassie. Malcolm may have had a lot to learn, but Jamie was too fucking horny. He pulled Malcolm in for another vicious kiss, their teeth and tongues meeting in battle, and scrabbled about with the zip on his trousers until he could get his hand inside. He closed his hand round the hard velvet of Malcolm’s cock and the man groaned helplessly.   
  
"Ye like?"   
  
Malcolm nodded, breathing hard and his head fell onto Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie squeezed once, hard, on Malcolm’s cock and then started to move his hand slowly. “I am gonna make ye come like a belt-fed weapon,” he promised, and Malcolm could only moan in near desperation. “The choice ye get, as the victor, is where ye come — in my fist or in my mouth.”

Malcolm had never been offered sex before, certainly not with a man, but the choice was easy enough.   
  
"I can have a wank at home." His expression turned icy and disdainful, his silver-blue eyes crystalline and hard, glazed over in lust and possessing their own cold inner light. He was a natural, taking to the Dominant role like a duck to water. He grabbed a fistful of brown curls and jerked Jamie’s head downward. "I want that big flapping gob of yers sucking me off before I come in my fucking pants!"

"Fucking finally," Jamie replied. It had only taken a fight and a lot of faffing about to get this cuckoo to act like a proper Winged. Jamie had lost a few fights in his time — the Motherwell Alpha had’nae taken well to being challenged — and knew this bit, although he’d lied to Malcolm about that.  He’d probably get a fucking good handjob off this one, since Malcolm didn’t quite understand Dominance yet.   
  
Malcolm sat on a parapet and watched as Jamie pulled his trousers and pants down, sighing in relief when his cock bounced free and stayed there erect, pulsing slightly in the cold air. Jamie barely even took time to look at it before he had his hands on Malcolm’s hips and his lips around his cock.   
  
Jamie sucked like a fucking tornado, with expert swirls of his tongue around the head of Malcolm’s cock and deep moans that sent wonderful vibrations along its length. Malcolm’s whole concentration was now condensed to the sensation of Jamie’s hands and mouth on him. He leaned back slightly, propping his hands behind him and bucking his hips forward. “Jesus, fuck…!”

It felt fucking amazing, far better than any session with his own right hand and a lad mag. Jamie’s tongue was lapping up his precome and teasing the sensitive flesh just under the tip of his cock, and what with that skill and the excitement of the whole fight thing, Malcolm became aware that he was’nae going to last long either.   
  
"F-fucking swallow," he gasped as an enormous heat started to build up in his balls. "I’m gonna come!"

Malcolm pulled Jamie’s head closer and started to thrust wildly into his mouth as the younger man stroked his cock with his tongue and throat. When he came, he threw his head back and screamed like a bird, his great wings trembling.   
  
He gasped for breath — it felt like he’d been drained. The wee crow was surprisingly good at this.   
  
Malcolm took a few seconds to catch his breath, then slipped a large hand down Jamie’s pants and around his neglected erection. It only seemed fair enough tae give him some relief too.

He’d never so much as kissed a man before, so what you did to bring one off was unknown to him, but he made the movements that worked when he was pleasuring himself — a firm grip, thumb teasing the head — and Jamie seemed to like them. A lot actually, if the porn-star moans that were coming from him were anything to go by.   
  
"Noisy wee cunt," he murmured, and increased the speed of his motions. Jamie’s cock was hard and hot and felt good under his touch.   
  
"I like fuckin’ and comin’ and fuck yeah, right there!" Jamie thrust into Malcolm’s grip once, twice, and then he came in a rush of hot fluid all over Malcolm’s fingers.

Malcolm reached over and wiped his hand off on Jamie’s trousers. Jamie gave a little yelp of displeasure in response and cuffed him with his wing.    
  
"Is this what happens  every time Winged get into a fight?”   
  
"Ach, not exactly. You’ll get the hang of it."

****

Sam laughed and nearly spilt her coffee. “You honestly taught Malcolm all of that?”   
  
"Yup." Jamie grinned like a wee devil and propped his feet up on the table. "Years ago. He knew fuck all about anything."   
  
"He’s going to kill you if he gets home and you have your feet on his table, you know that?"   
  
"He’s going tae do fucking worse if he finds out I’ve told ye about the first time I introduced him tae a Winged lassie…"

***


End file.
